SECOND CHANCES (ORIGINAL WORK)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The game had gone on for hours, and the lingering smell of puerile frenzy was the most present feature that remained with Clay. Controlled chaos stained his immediate surrounding, an eternally unfurling piece of polythene that had once been a bag of chips lay before him to the right, just by his gaming system. A bottle of water, open and drunk till only a sip remained was close by it. A greasy, dysfunctional electrical socket lied by the door, like a guard even though its own purpose was defined for it by a general lack of unawareness than intention. For all of the time that the game went on, it was all that mattered to Clay.

All of that changed when an unmistakable manly knock rocked his door. The loud bang, three in a strong series of raps demanded his attention violently, even from the chaotic noise that rang in his headphones. He spun around, assuming he had imagined the noise when the knock came again, with the same intensity.

Simple frustration swept through him, wrestling against the better judgment of responsibility. His attention, fleetingly returned to the video game and he sighed.

"Hold on guys, someone's at my door," he said, examining his room and for the first time, realizing how much filth he had allowed himself to be in.

He shrugged off the urge at self-deprecation. He was neat sometimes. There was no way he would allow such a temporary slip make him feel like shit.

"Come on, running away?" one of the boys yelled over the headset and Clay shook his head. "I'm about to whoop your ass and..."

It was the last bit of banter Clay allowed himself to hear as he took off his headset nonchalantly and throwing it on his soft cushion he had just stood from. He sauntered from his corner slowly and straight at the door when the continuous chirping conversation he could barely make out informed him of an error on his part.

He had forgotten to turn off his mic.

"Fuck," he mouthed, hesitating in his stride, halfway to the door and the same back to his chair and where the headset sat, shiny like temptation.

Whoever was at the door had better be worth his time. Clay bit his lip and made his decision with facile dispatch.

He walked to the door and stared through the peep-hole feebly. Behind the door stood a tall detective, made taller by the frame that separated his knowledge of their presence and their obliviousness of his. Clay assessed him quickly from his fingers and up his arms which he was reminded of again was quite solidly built as one who lifted heavy bars of iron every week day and twice on Sunday.

Even the calming effect in the piercing blue of the detective's wandering eye did little to assuage the terror that pounded in Clay's stomach. It tightened in a dozen knots, perceiving menace even before it was unleashed. An assuring badge hanging off the chain around the Detective's neck was the impetus when his thought returned to his game quietly.

Heck, the detective might not even notice he was home anyway. He thought as he fiddled with the door hinge for a moment before pulling it back to usher in sunlight.

Clay cleared his throat, loudly and placed his head against the tightly held door, using the rest of his body as a weight.

"Yeah?" he called, with a sting in his tone, the constant reminder that police presence on private property was a nuisance until requested.

"LAPD. Can we talk?" he said and held up an ID.

The detective's hand waved unstably and the content of what he carried and tried to show were undecipherable even as Clay squinted to get the faintest inkling. Instinct betrayed him into waiting anxiety and Clay felt himself loosen up to the detective's request.